


Always Was, Always Will Be

by zeldadestry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-03
Updated: 2007-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And sometimes in the glass, his own face looked wrong to him, and he hated its beauty, because it simply was not right, something simply didn't fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Was, Always Will Be

They were so happy together, everyone was so happy. James and Lily were still together, still enraptured with each other, still as blushing newlyweds and their family was growing. Harry was growing up so quickly, and Lily was pregnant again, and she was sure it would be a girl, a girl with pudgy pink cheeks and beautiful eyes of darkest blue, and they would call her Violet. And if you asked James whether he wanted a boy or a girl, he would say, "Don't care, long as they're good at Quidditch." And Lily would shake her head and say, "He wants me to pop out seven, a whole damn team, you see!" And he would lean in and say, "You think seven's too many?" And Lily would reply, "Don't know, darling. One at a time, let's take it one at a time." The Potter's home in Godric's Hollow had a beautiful garden and every day, early in the evening, when Sirius would arrive for dinner, Lily would be there, working in the soil, tending to the plants that bloomed all year round. It was spring all year round. And she would take his hand, and they would walk together up the cobblestone path to the front door, and James would be there, waiting for them, smiling, and his hands would clap Sirius on the back, and everything was just as it should be, just as it had always been and always would be.

Except that sometimes when Sirius left, he was terrified, terrified that he would never see them alive again, terrified that the next time he arrived there, he would meet a sight so horrifying that his whole life would be ruined, instantly; his heart would be serrated so viciously that he would never be the same man again.

And after dinner, he would return to his flat, return to Remus, who would kiss him with inexorable desire as though they had been apart for a century, and with all passion and all love they spent the nights, side by side, every centimeter of their flesh conjoined, looking into each other's eyes, sharing each other's breath. And all days were sweet, all nights were glorious. Sometimes he stayed up half the night, just to watch Remus sleeping soundly beside him. Remus always slept soundly.

But sometimes when Sirius curled around him on the nights of the full moon, it seemed to him that Remus had not always been this solid, his hair always this thick and brown, his skin not always so smooth and without shadow. There echoed within his memory another Remus, a Remus who'd been hurt, but who needed him more precisely because of that damage, and the loss of that Remus was difficult to bear. It was the loss of being the one who cared for Remus, protected him and helped make the night no longer terrifying but something longed for, essential and anticipated. Sirius remembered a Remus who suffered from nightmares, night terrors, who trembled and cried out, and he could remember a whole miraculous progression. At first he would simply wake Remus and cover him with his blanket again. Then came a time when he would also stroke Remus's arm, his side, to help him relax until he fell asleep again. And soon after that he dared to slip into Remus's bed and lie still beside him, which led to lying in each other's arms in the night, which led to whispers and kisses, and forward from there sprang the whole of their life together as remusandsirius.

And sometimes in the glass, his own face looked wrong to him, and he hated its beauty, because it simply was not right, something simply didn't fit. He couldn't be so young, he didn't feel that young. "I don't know what you're complaining about," the glass told him, in her coy femme fatale's voice. "You look absolutely smashing to me."

"Was I ill once?" he asked. "Were there bruises under my eyes and hollows under my cheeks, a time when all excess flesh had been stripped from my body, and I was like a skeleton, and my gaze was such as to make children cry and hide themselves at their mother's breast?"

"Don't be silly. You've always been delicious," the glass cooed. "You've always been darling."

But his body remembered the sensations of hunger, of thirst, of exhaustion, and even the emptiness of a time beyond that, when the desires of his body had burned themselves out, consumed themselves, and simply disappeared.

But he was loathe to admit these blasphemies to anyone else, to those he loved so dearly, refused to interject doubt into their perfect joy.

Sometimes in his dreams he saw nothing but flashes of red and he would wake, his hand clutched to his own chest, frozen, unable to move. He was suspended in time, space, and yet the feeling was as though he fell backwards and backwards through an unending succession of arches.

When would he land? And where?


End file.
